


Family!verse outtakes

by GoddessofBirth



Series: family!verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Multi, Other, Pack Dynamics, Romance, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Derek becomes Alpha, Derek's cousins show up at his door.  Wait - Derek has COUSINS?! *edited to include underage warnings for chapter 6.  It's non-descriptive, but both parties are clearly under the age of 18*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lydia's Secret Weapon, or, Don't Make Assumptions about Ms. Martin

**Author's Note:**

> These are just outtakes and exploratory oneshots for a monster of a story I'm working on, as I'm trying to work out OC characters and dynamics. They are *not* finished products. Probably won't make much sense except to those who've been beta'ing for me, but if you decide to take a read, basic premise is that Derek's father had a sister who disappeared from the pack when she was a teen. The following links provide a bit of visual background.

[Your Main Players](http://goddessofbirth.livejournal.com/241308.html)

 

[The Generation that Came Before](http://crusingthroughreality.tumblr.com/post/20617925979/the-generation-that-came-before)

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

She's a ridiculous little girl, with ridiculous little curls, and Adam can't help but roll his eyes as she flaunts herself on his cousin's overgrown lawn, pretending to sunbathe. She props herself up on her elbows, leaning back at just the right angle to thrust her breasts out for proper viewing, shaking her hair in what he guesses she assumes is a signal for him to notice something about lushness or highlights or some other Teen Beat bullshit. Honestly, he's surprised she didn't go for a skimpier bikini, but he supposes even bubble headed red heads have to know when obvious crosses the line into _too_ obvious.

 

He takes a long pull from his beer and leans against the porch railing, wondering again why the hell his cousin insists on living in this dump. It's going to fall down around their ears one of these days, and they'll be lucky if they get out alive. It's an unfortunate thought, considering how many people actually did die here, but he never knew them, so it's hard to remember to show proper respect. His brother would be giving him a sad, reproachful look right now, but he's out tramping about in the woods, so Adam can be just as rude in his head as he wants to.

 

The redhead – Lana...Linda... _Lydia_ – sighs and flips to her stomach and Adam shakes his head before turning his back. Every pack has one of them – a girl or boy that thinks that because they can't land  _their_ Alpha, they'll move on up the food chain to another pack's. It's just too bad for this one that he's slept with far too many pretty faces to worry about the attentions of an empty headed 5 th Avenue brat, who's probably just this side of legal; doesn't matter how many curves she's shaking.

 

He plops down on the stairs next to his cousin, who's spent the last hour covertly watching the  _only_ non-wolf in the yard, a hyperactive twenty year old who's currently alternating between doing cartwheels and playing random one-on-one games of lacrosse with Scott, the first Beta of the pack. He doesn't understand Derek or his reticence. Anyone with half a brain can see he wants the boy, and anyone with half a  _nose_ can smell the nervous excitement that wafts off the human whenever he catches Derek's eye on him. For God's sake, he is the  _Alpha_ of his pack; his job is to  _take_ what is so obviously being offered, not pretend he neither notices or wants it.

 

Kellen would definitely be elbowing him by now, giving him the bitchface of all bitchface's if he tried to interfere in another pack's dynamics, so instead of verbalizing his thoughts, he uses his beer bottle to point to the red head and asks mildly, 'How exactly did you get saddled with her?'

 

Derek turns from where he was ostensibly engrossed in watching the grass – conveniently located by the lacrosse net – grow, and shrugs. 'Lydia? She was Peter's bite. He died, she didn't.'

 

'So you got stuck with clean up. Rough.' But it's good of Derek to adopt Peter's orphans. A less kind Alpha would have driven them off, left them to make their way as pack-less castaways. Not many werewolf's survive without a family behind them; they are built for the ties of a community, not for a solitary life. The lone wolf is a stupid myth.

 

Derek makes a non-committal noise and swigs at his own beer. 'She's not so bad. Annoying as hell, sure, but so is Stiles, and both of them have gotten the pack out of deep shit more than once.'

 

'Her?' Adam's sure his face shows exactly how little he believes his cousin. He's pretty sure the girl currently flipping through a Cosmopolitan, while wrapping a piece of chewing gum around her finger, is far more the kind to need saving, than to be saved. Derek looks at him a little funny, before his eyes go hard. Adam is proud to see him defending his pack against insult – unconventional dynamics aside, his young cousin has good instincts.

 

'She just got home for the summer. If you two had showed up any earlier, she'd still be at school.' Derek pauses, then continues. 'At MIT.'

 

Then he smirks and throws his beer bottle into the trash barrel at the end of the porch. It shatters as it hits bottom and he vaults down the stairs and into the lawn, barking at Scott and Stiles to quit fooling around and get things set up for dinner. Adam only hears that though, because he's busy watching the ridiculous little girl, with her ridiculous little curls, and her apparently MIT brain.

 

Interesting.


	2. Jackson Isn't Alone Anymore aka The Real Reason Werewolves are Awesome

Jackson is running. Running as hard and as fast as he can through the woods – at least as much as he can without wolfing out, but he can't do that. Not yet, not here, because if he does, he'll lose what little control he's hanging onto and he'll melt and melt and melt into the anger and hurt and fear that are burning a whole in the bottom of his spine. He needs...he needs...he needs to get back to his pack, back to his home, back to where he's _safe_.

 

This week with his family has wrecked him, this week in their perfect vacation home, with his perfect cousins and their perfect lives, where a fuck up like him doesn't belong. And they've never said it, never breathed a word, but he  _knows_ they probably wish they had adopted a different kid, wish they hadn't wasted their money and their time on a total screw up who just brought home a 'C' in molecular biology, because not matter how hard he tries he's really only great at lacrosse, a stupid game his parents don't care anything about, even if they say they do, because if they did they would have come to at least one of his games - 

 

And he thought it would be easier after Derek bit him – when he was strong and invincible and the thing to be feared in the night - and in some ways he is right. Not because of his strength, or because he can tear someone in two – turns out that's more terrifying than anything else – but because his pack  _wants_ him. They're annoying, and loud –  _Stiles_ , his mind snarls helpfully – and say things to him his parents never would, but they  _need_ him, make a place for him there, expect him to be exactly what he is.

 

But in some ways...in some ways it is so much worse...because now that he knows what it is to feel safe, he feels it more starkly when he is not. When everything collapses all around him and he can't lie enough to convince himself that he is anything more than a loser pretending at winning, it cuts sharper than it ever did when he was human. And it is not all the time, and it is not even that often, but when it happens he  _needs_ his pack, needs them to scent him and calm him and keep him from giving in to his wolf and its desire to tear through the entire town, ripping throats out to demonstrate his superiority.

 

Extended time with his family is the worst.

 

He's barely held it together all week, and he is supposed to wait for Scott to pick him up, drive him straight to the woods, but he can't, cannot hold it together another second, so as soon as his parents put the car in park he bolts straight out the door and has been running ever since. He is fine, he'll be  _fine_ , he just needs to see his pack - 

 

A sharp scent hits him, and he freezes mid-flight. There is a werewolf here. Not one of his pack, but the smell is not completely unfamiliar; there is a hint of Derek there, and something else – something deeper and richer and he swallows the saliva watering his mouth. He's poised, flight or fight...he doesn't know the circumstances, but the only other wolf he's met was Peter, and Peter just wanted them all to die. Dying is not an option here. He's too young, and too, too pretty for that.

 

His teeth have started to lengthen when the other man steps into view. He hasn't shifted, which is a good sign, but he's strong...stronger than Jackson, maybe stronger than Derek, and Jackson thinks he should howl, should alert his pack. The man is shirtless, and he steps forward, ignoring the tension vibrating from Jackson as he spreads his hands in a placating gesture.

 

'Hey...hey it's okay. Jackson...you're Jackson, right? It's okay. I'm Derek's cousin.'

 

And that's a  _lie_ , a damn  _lie_ , because Derek's family is  _dead_ . Jackson is too on edge, too wound up to pay attention to the fact the stranger's heartbeat hasn't changed – everything is coming down around his last shreds of calm and he knows he's going to shift, going to wolf out when he is least prepared to control it. Before it happens, before his bones elongate and painfully pop into something new, the stranger is in front of him, reaching for him. It's too late for Jackson to react, to try to defend himself, but the other wolf doesn't attack; instead he bears Jackson down to the ground, wraps arms and legs around him in some kind of full body bear hug, his face nuzzling into his neck.

 

'Shhh...breath. It's okay. You're safe. I've got you.'

 

Jackson is caught between fighting, and giving in to what is being offered, because this feeling, this peace and calm radiating from the other man is exactly what he was running to get. It makes no sense; he isn't pack, he's a stranger, a wolf situated where only his wolves should be, and more than that, when he reaches the point he  _knows_ he's at, he needs his whole pack to do this. Not just the wolves - it requires Allison and Stiles, too. He has never been more grateful to Stiles than when he doesn't say a word, not a single snark when Derek orders him over, just curls up right along with the true werewolves against Jackson, and rests his head on his stomach. He doesn't say anything after either, or any of the other dozen times Jackson has needed, and this was when Jackson knows Stiles accepts him as family.

 

But this stranger is  _not_ family, and so his wolf should be tearing and fighting and clawing to get away, but it's blissed out in seconds, and Jackson is blissed out in seconds, and it's too, too easy to just give in, to let his eyes close and his breathing even, and his stress leak away.

 

* * * * ** * 

 

Kellen looks at the kid wrapped all around him, dead asleep. He's a mess – a perfect, ungodly, gorgeous mess, completely unable to see his own strength, and Kellen sifts his hair through his fingers, rubbing the strands between his fingertips. He understands now why his cousin's pack has been edgy and worried about their absent member, why they go into preparation mode when they get word he is on his way back. This boy – man, technically, he knows all his cousin's pack have reached their majority – is bound into the pack even more than normal, belongs to them in a way that generally only those born to the blood are, the way he and Adam and Derek are – a way that makes them a part of him. Kellen will do everything within his power to keep that bond from breaking, but if he has to, he will shatter it into a million pieces.

 

Because this boy is  _his_ .

 

He suspects it when he first scents him, knows for sure when he first touches him. And it doesn't always happen to their kind, in fact  _rarely_ happens to their kind, but he's been raised to this, and knows to accept it for what it is.

 

The boy and his pack? Will perhaps not be so understanding. He feels his nails and teeth lengthen, and his eyes change at the thought of someone taking what is his, the person he belongs to – he suspects his cousin would have a similar reaction should someone approach the young human he pretends not to see. This must be handled carefully; he does not want a pack war, not when they've just found Derek, when they hope to have his help finding their mother. And something has happened to damage the boy; he will not take him until he knows he can stand on his own.

 

Everything has become exponentially more complicated in the last five minutes, but for now he keeps himself wrapped around Jackson, and whispers into his hair that he is home.


	3. Now You Want To Talk About This? aka Scott Actually Tries To Help (But Maybe Screws It All Up)

Stiles stares up at the sky, the prickly grass of Derek's lawn sticking him in the back and sides and calves, and Scott laying head to head with him in the muggy night air. This is one of his favorite parts of camping out at Derek's. There's no streetlamps here, no neighbors with their windows shining, so he can see thousands and thousands of stars blazing up the night sky. It reminds him of when his mother is still alive, when she and his dad take him to Ukiah, where they set up tents and she points out all the constellations, tells him stories about how they got their names.

 

He still remembers each and every one, from the Big Dipper, to the Pleiades, to little Cassiopeia, even though he and his dad haven't gone camping since his mom died.

 

Scott gives a loud, long suffering sigh. He's moping, just a little, because Allison went home to spend some 'quality time' with Mr. Argent. Stiles thinks Scott doesn't get how good he has it; Mr. Argent _kills_ werewolves, but he accepts Allison dating Scott, accepts she's part of a wolf's _pack_. Although, honestly, Stiles isn't sure Mr. Argent knows that last bit, but that's been fact ever since Allison stands with the werewolves (and Stiles!) that one summer her mother goes crazy and tries to finish what Kate started. So, yeah, pretty strong statement of pack-hood, and Mr. Argent still doesn't lock her in her room at night.

 

Besides, with her mother dead, she's the only thing her dad has left; Stiles knows that story all too well, so Scott can just suck it up the one odd night a week Mr. Argent actually wants to see her.

 

'Why are you still here?' Scott breaks into his reverie, and Stiles tucks his hands behind his head before he answers him, in his  _were you dropped on your head as an infant_ voice.

 

'Because it's summer. It's what we do.' Summer is pack time. During the year, most of them are off at college, or jobs, and while they all manage to pop in at least once a month, summer is the time everyone comes home. Over time, it turns into one extended campout at the Hale house, most of them crashing somewhere in the mansion or on the property, rather than go home just to come back the next day. Even Lydia, which should be surprising, but isn't, because once she escapes Beacon Hills, she becomes more relaxed, loses a lot of that bitchiness that haunted her high school years. She wears less make up and smiles less bitterly. Stiles doesn't love her anymore, but he likes her better, even if she is currently playing some weird game of chicken with Adam Hale.

 

'No, idiot. What are you still doing  _here_ , in Beacon Hills? Why won't you leave?'

 

And that was not what he is expecting, so his usual witty repartee falls a bit short. 'What, you trying to get rid of me?' The idea hurts a little, because even though he and Lydia are probably closer now, Scott is supposed to be his best friend.

 

'Of course not. I like that I still see you every day.' Scott is Dr. Deaton's official assistant now, his certificate framed and shiny on the wall of the vet's office. 'But...just...Dude, I saw your grades in high school. I saw your acceptance letters; your dad told me about all the scholarship offers. You could be at MIT with Lydia, or off with Jackson. And don't say it's because you don't want to leave your dad; there's a boatload of schools you could go to a day's drive away. But you don't. You just...stay.'

 

'Hey,' Stiles says defensively, because  _come on_ ! 'I take online courses.'

 

'Yeah, in  _cheese making_ , and medieval armor repair!'

 

'That came in helpful that one time,' Stiles mutters, but Scott isn't even paying attention. He's obviously been sitting on this for awhile, and is on a roll, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged beside Stiles.

 

'Dude, I'm pretty sure I even saw some ministry course on your computer once.'

 

Stiles snickers. 'Yep. I'm ordained and official. So, you know, whenever you and Allison are ready to tie the knot, just give me a heads up.' That one had been a whim, something nominal between the eternal research he seems to always be doing for the Pack. Never know when you might need some holy water or, more likely, someone to impersonate a person with authority.

 

'Shut up,' Scott knees him in the side so Stiles grudgingly moves from studying the stars to sitting beside him. The porch light is on, and he can see Lydia and Jackson through the window, bent over a game of cards. Kellen is sitting on the porch, but he's arranged his chair so that he's got a sideways view into the same window Stiles does. He's barely talked to Jackson since he showed up with him the previous day, but there's something going on there, Stiles is sure, and he knows he's gonna have to be the one to figure it out, because nobody else seems to notice the way he stares at him when no one is looking.

 

Derek and Adam are sitting in the grass a hundred feet off, talking in voices too low for Stiles to hear, probably discussing Alpha shit. There's a lot Derek doesn't know, because his family died too young, and a lot Stiles can't find, even in the old books he gets the library to request or that he takes day trips up and down the coast to find in rare bookshops – that whole secrecy thing and all. Adam knows these things though, and they're probably lucky his cousins didn't grow up to be the enigmatic, one-word-answering, mystery-is-my-middle-name werewolf Derek did.

 

'Just...man...you're wasting yourself here. You can be something. You should go  _be_ something. Derek would let you go, if you asked him.'

 

Stiles is pretty sure Derek would let him go, too, and maybe that's why he doesn't ask.

 

'You guys wouldn't survive without me. Somebody's got to stay and keep you all in one piece.'

 

Scott is watching his face, and there's something in his eyes that says Stiles isn't going to like what he says next. 'All of us? Or just one of us?' He looks pointedly over Stiles' shoulder at Derek and raises his eyebrow.

 

Stiles feels his face flush and for one second he's relieved it's dark, then he remembers, duh, werewolf senses, and then his cheeks get even warmer. 'What? No. Shut up, don't be stupid.' And he really wishes he had a beer about now; he's underage, but he's responsible, and if there is any time to break the law, now is it.

 

Scott flops back onto the grass with an aggravated sigh and because it seems like the thing to do, Stiles flops back with him. For a minute, they're both quiet, watching the stars wink.

 

Scott speaks slowly, like he's mouthing each word before he says it, trying to make sure they're the right ones – and really, for Scott, that's a huge accomplishment. 'I'm not...the most observant person, and I know I'm not the best friend, either - ' 

 

Stiles tries to interrupt with protestation, but Scott elbows him hard in the side to shut him up. 'It's true and you know it, but you're like...you're my oldest friend. And...and I love you.'

 

Stiles groans and covers his face with his hand. 'What, are we suddenly girls now? Can we  _not_ do this?' As usual, Scott ignores what Stiles wants.

 

'You like him. You like him a lot.' Stiles rolls over on his stomach and burrows into the grass. He'd get up and walk away, but Scott would just use his werewolfy-ness to catch up and continue badgering him. This is one of the times it really sucks being a human.

 

'Scoooott,' he whines, in one last feeble attempt to get him to shut the hell up. Stiles has been fine never acknowledging this, and he would like to go  _on_ not acknowledging it.

 

'You keep us all together. I  _know_ that. And, you've been like...super careful...practically stealth in the world of Stiles', but I know you. It's like you think if you're not here, and something happens to him, it will be your fault, or you just kind of want to be around him...which I totally understand...I mean,  _Allison_ ...but...'

 

'Oh my God.' Stiles lunges over to tackle Scott – Scott graciously lets him – and slaps his hand over his mouth. 'You are going to shut up,  _right now_ . Swear to god, or I'm going to...punch you. Break my hand, sure, but at least  _I'll_ feel better. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!' Really, and Jesus, he is  _so past_ talking about feelings with Scott. Has probably been past it since eleventh grade, when Scott stopped listening.

 

Scott gently removes his hand, only using a fraction of his strength, but it's the fraction that's stronger than Stiles. 'Dude. It's been three years. If something was gonna happen, don't you think it would have?' His voice is kind, and Stiles' can tell he's thought about it awhile now. 'You need a life outside of us. Go to school, date somebody – when's the last time you had a date?'

 

Summer after graduation, but who's counting?

 

'Stop existing for other people.' And  _boy_ is Stiles about to call Scott out on his hypocrisy – Allison, anyone? - but Scott deflates him with his next words. 'We don't have a choice. You do.'

 

Then Scott noogies him in the head and shoves him off, back to his normal, immature, non-Yoda self. 'Come on. Let's bully Jackson and Lydia into playing Kick the Can.'

 

He jogs toward the house, but Stiles stays where he is for another minute. He's looking up at the sky, but for once, not seeing the stars, because as much as he really, really hates Scott right now, he thinks he might actually have a point.


	4. Underneath my skin, there's a monster in here AKA In another life, Derek wore skinny jeans and eyeliner

Derek....Derek is _tearing_ though his family's house; he's not sure he sees where he's going or what he's doing, but it's going to be violent and satisfying, that's for sure. He throws a chair against the wall; it breaks into nothing more than splinters, but that's okay, it was falling apart anyhow. He sees a glass left sitting out on the table and he lopes into the kitchen, picks it up and flings it into the window. Both it and the window shatter, and for a minute he takes a second to breath, lets the oxygen burn through his lungs.

 

He needs to get this out, to calm down before his pack returns from the made-up errands he sent them on. It isn't good for them to see their Alpha out of control, it's frightening, and disconcerting, especially when there's no corporeal enemy to fight. No one he can fight, nothing he has the  _right_ to fight. And the thought pushes his eyes redder, and he's gripped the edges of the table hard enough to stress the wood, is just about to flip it over when a calm voice comes from the kitchen's doorway.

 

'You could always ask him to stay.'

 

Derek snarls as he flips around, ready to attack because he wants an outlet, and any outlet to do. Kellen is leaning into the room, both hands braced on the top of the door frame, and if he's alarmed by Derek's partially wolfed appearance, he doesn't show it. Derek's human part, the part that  _has_ to be in control, forces the wolf to back down, schools his face into the blank stare that's been his protection for more years than he can count.

 

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

 

'Of course. Because it's perfectly normal for a seasoned Alpha to tear apart his house like a wolf on his first full moon.'

 

Derek keeps his face perfectly blank, not giving Kellen anything to work with. He can see Adam in the living room, lounging on the couch; he hadn't realized they had returned from checking out the possible lead Stiles had found. _Stiles_...

 

He feels a muscle twitch in his cheek and Kellen sighs.

 

'Okay, let's try this. You could always ask Stiles to stay.'

 

'Why would I do that? He has a right to go; I haven't stopped anyone else.' He has, in fact, encouraged Lydia and Jackson, Scott and Allison in their goals. It's not that he doesn't miss them; he is their Alpha, their absence is a physical ache, but his job is to do what is best for the pack, and they are children who must grow; in turn they will strengthen the pack. He sometimes wonders, though, if he was ever as young as they are. He has encouraged everyone...except for Stiles.

 

A fissure of disquiet runs down his spine. He realizes this afternoon, when Stiles whips out the program packet at the lunch table, bursting at the seams and babbling from the mouth about pros and positives, but the only thing Derek can hear is  _Boston, Massachusetts_ –

 

He realizes he has been stealing; stealthily sneaking bits and pieces of what he decided years ago he wouldn't take. Kept a human bound closer to the pack than the actual wolves, more than he has a right. He has taken advantage when he should have pushed, doing exactly what he was trying to avoid. So Stiles must go. He must let him go. Because Stiles wants to go. Stiles  _wants_ to go.

 

So he scowls and grumbles the expected amount, before roughly clapping Stiles shoulder and congratulating him and threatening him if he doesn't come back at appointed pack times. Everyone grins and everyone eats and then he sends everyone off in six different directions. Only then does he give into his wolf, to the anger and rage that make him want to leap across the table at Stiles, pin him to the wall by his throat, sink his teeth into his neck and tell him that he belongs to Derek and he goes nowhere without him.

 

Derek controls the wolf, not the other way around, and Derek told the wolf 'no' a long time ago. He has been careful, so very, very careful, because he knows he is tainted, that he taints whatever he touches, and Stiles needs something cleaner, something better, someone to touch and taste and –

 

Derek realizes he has lost whatever illusion of nonchalance he was trying to maintain in front of his cousins when a high pitched squeal comes from the counter tops – his claws are scraping grooves into the Formica at the thought of a stranger touching Stiles, and he forces the change back down. Away...it will be better for Stiles away.

 

Adam has joined Kellen at the door, and he's looking at Derek in a way that leaves no doubt that he's in serious question of his mental faculties. Derek realizes he's seen that same look on the other Alpha's face before, always when Stiles is in Derek's space, and that's when it finally hits him that they  _know_ . He panics for one second before he remembers that this is  _his_ house.  _His_ pack. He answers to no one.

 

'Are we done?' He asks shortly. He hasn't satisfied the wolf, and his rage is only simmering beneath the surface, not close to disappearing.

 

'You should tell him,' Kellen says, not budging, and then Adam offers his two cents.

 

'You should take him.' Kellen elbows his brother in the side but Adam doesn't flinch. He may be the Alpha, but Kellen functions as a true first Beta, in a way Scott has yet to mature into completely. He advises, he calms; in the three weeks they have been camped here, Derek has only seen Adam assert his authority a few times.

 

'There's nothing to tell.' He starts to shoulder past them, intent on getting out of the house and into the woods – the damage he's going to cause will be less noticeable there – but Adam grabs his shoulder and for a good six seconds they're scrabbling for dominance that's going quickly downhill towards a fight before Kellen inserts himself between them.

 

'You're not the only one involved. He should have a choice.'

 

Derek's voice is muffled a bit by the fangs that have taken over his mouth. 'He does. And he's  _choosing_ to go.' To leave. To leave Derek. And he  _should_ , because there's no reason for him to stay. There's no reason. And he's still pack, so he's not disappearing, and Derek has two full months to remind himself to get used to the idea because Stiles will eventually live his life and if he wants to completely leave the pack, Derek will let him go; he's not a wolf, Derek will never  _let_ him become a wolf, and he'll eventually meet someone – 

 

Kellen interrupts his increasingly circular thoughts. 'He should have all the information.'

 

_Information_ . For one hysterical moment Derek considers telling his cousins about Kate, so that they could understand exactly how fractured his insides are and that the last thing he should be inflicted on was a boy as quicksilver bright as Stiles, but Kate is Derek's secret to keep; he's never told anyone and he doubts he ever will. So instead he growls –

 

'There's no information to give.' If they don't back down, there will be a fight, and maybe that will be a good thing. They'll all heal by the time the rest of the pack returns, and it will be better than damaging an already ruined house. Adam blocks his exit with an arm across the doorway, and the possibility of the fight shifts more to probability.

 

'You've marked him.'

 

Derek's surprise makes him step back. 'Bullshit.' Because he has made sure not to cross that line, even at times when every instinct demands it; when Stiles is hurt, or in danger or shirtless and grinning and smelling like all the best bakeries in the world, and Derek wants to physically brand him as warning to the rest of the world.

 

There are amused sounds coming from his cousins and Adam shakes his head. 'You should have been taught better. There are marks that are deeper than skin.'

 

He's right. Derek knows he is right, and that is why he will let Stiles go. He's done with the conversation, done with his know it all cousins with their know it all lives, who had the luxury of growing up with a family that didn't die, so he pulls his trump card, menacing in a way only Derek Hale can menace.

 

'This is pack business.  _My_ pack business. Back off or we're gonna have a real issue with our agreement.' He can tell he's pissed off Adam, because yeah, they're family, but so what? Not like he knows them from – . Not like he knows them. But Kellen seems willing to keep the peace.

 

'Fine, your choice.' Then something feral crosses over his usually placid cousin's face and Kellen stares him down intently. 'But if I were in your position, I would rip this town apart before I let him go.' He thinks Kellen is trying to tell him something - for one horrifying second he wonders if  _he_ wants Stiles, and he's about to make himself an orphan all over again; but no, that's not it. It's something though, something important, and he'll figure it out as soon as he gets his wolf leashed; he'll figure it out or he'll ask Stiles if he's noticed, because Stiles always notices –

 

'Good thing you're not me then,' is all he says, though, and then he's gone, out the door, and running through the woods like an Argent is on his tail. Kellen and Adam look at where he's disappeared and then, by common consensus, move back into the living room. Kellen can smell exactly where Jackson has sat, and he runs his hand over the back of the chair, resisting the urge to lick the palm of his hand when he's done. Some things just cross into creepy, even for werewolves.

 

Adam is scowling; Kellen knows he's beyond frustrated with Derek's unexplained reticence.

 

'This is stupid.'

 

Kellen flops down on the couch and lets his head fall back, inhaling Jackson. 'Not your pack.'

 

'He's being an idiot.'

 

' _Not_ your pack. And yeah, maybe _._ But he's not telling us everything.' It's a new thing, having family not trust them, but maybe blood without time makes a difference to Derek.

 

'You  _know_ this is gonna be a fucking disaster; they'll destroy each other.'

 

Kellen eyes his brother. 'He's managed for three years. Maybe he'll be fine.'

 

'Because the kid's been  _here_ . With  _him_ . He lets him go, the kid's gonna meet somebody eventually.'

 

'Probably.'

 

'And eventually touching is going to be involved.'

 

Kellen knows where his brother is heading, but he lets him take the ride. He's not wrong, not really. 'Probably.'

 

'And then Derek will rip them to shreds.'

 

Kellen makes room for Adam to sit down next to him, let's him settle before answering soberly, because he knows it's true.

 

'Almost definitely.'

 

Neither one of them speaks for a long time after.


	5. In Retrospect That Wasn't The Best Reaction aka Maybe You Shouldn't Be So Critical of Derek, Kellen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Jackson. I'm not gonna lie. He's such a blend of vulnerable, beautiful douchebag that I want to keep poking him with sticks to figure out what makes him tick. Sometimes they're sharp ones. I really can't help it. Also, I think I've got one more oneshot to get out and then I'll be done with these and ready to start on the actual story. These will probably appear as chapters in some form or fashion, possibly in alternate POVs.

When Jackson finds him, Kellen is sitting at the side of the little creek that runs along the boundary of the Hale property, his bare feet immersed in the water and his shirt nowhere in sight. That's not really unusual; most of the male werewolves don't bother with shirts in the summer – even Lydia runs around in a sports bra half the time. But Jackson's eyes drag over the muscles flexing in Kellen's back in a way that's involuntary and totally different from the way he sees the others, and he swallows reflexively, shakes himself back to reality.

 

He's not surprised to find him here, in the woods – Kellen disappears into them every day, almost like a ritual, and maybe that's why Jackson came out here. He doesn't get it, tries not to think about it, just knows that somehow in the last weeks he's started revolving around this person like he's magnetic north and Jackson has to orient to wherever he is. He doesn't think Kellen knows it, _hopes_ he doesn't notice it. Jackson can't explain what he doesn't understand, and part of him wants to go back to eleventh grade, when he would start a fight with him, punch him and kick him and hurt him as much as possible for daring to push Jackson even farther from his already precarious balance.

 

He won't; not just because it would embarrass Derek and the pack, or because Kellen is stronger than Jackson and a fight would likely end with Jackson pinned to the ground and Kellen's teeth in his neck, but because the larger – the  _largest_ – part of Jackson just wants to curl up around Kellen, like he did when they first met. Wants to soak up the weird calm he radiates, to feel that strange buzz at the base of his spine that's almost a constant ache now.

 

He hesitates at the edge of the clearing, feeling stupid. And he  _hates_ that feeling. Stiles is stupid, or Scott, but not him.  _Never him_ . And it's not like he can slink off anyway; there's no way Kellen doesn't already smell him, know he's here.

 

In the end Kellen makes it easy, shifts his body weight a little so that he can see Jackson. 'Hey, come sit down.' When Jackson gets to the edge of the stream, he toes his shoes off and dips them into the water next to Kellen's. He doesn't look at the older man, just stares at his feet, and wonders again what he's doing here. He can feel Kellen watching him, probably wondering what the hell he's doing intruding on his space, too. He should say something, make the situation less awkward. He blurts out the first thing he thinks of.

 

'I don't want Stiles to go.'

 

He chances a look at Kellen then; he's staring at him intently, in a way that makes Jackson feel flushed and his heart rate pick up. Kellen's is a steady thrum thrum in his ears, calm and collected; he's the most even keeled person Jackson has ever met.

 

'Why not? He shouldn't go to school?' He's curious, like he really cares about Jackson's reasons, like he actually gives a flying fuck about what Jackson thinks. He's like that whenever they talk, whether asking him about lacrosse – who knew some schools didn't play it at all? - or his major, or any of the other random subjects that have somehow come up between the two of them.

 

Jackson feels like a dick now, so he tries to explain. 'No, that's not...he should, you know. Lydia's been pestering him for years. It's just...' It's hard to get it out of his mouth; it makes him feel vulnerable, like turning a soft belly up for someone to stab. 'I mean, they're always here, you know. Derek and Stiles. I don't know.' He can't quite bring himself to say that seeing them - Derek and Stiles and Derek's crappy, falling down house – it lets him know he's home, that he's safe. He's come to expect it, and he doesn't want it to change, but that's not the only thing.

 

'It just feels...wrong.' He shrugs, watches Kellen's eyes follow the movement of his shoulders before returning to his face. 'Derek will be alone.' Which is stupid to worry about, because as far as he knows, Derek  _likes_ being grumpy and solitary most of the time, but it doesn't change the fact that the words feel like truth in his mouth. Stiles apart from Beacon Hill, Stiles apart from his Alpha; it makes Jackson feel itchy.

 

Kellen is looking away from him, shaking his head in what looks like exasperation. 'Your whole pack sees it; our pack sees it. The only ones who don't are those two idiots.'

 

Now  _Jackson_ is confused. 'What?'

 

Kellen grins, and it does  _things_ to Jackson, things that make him inhale a huge gasp of air. It's filled with Kellen's scent, and it rolls down and around and through him and his higher brain functions switch off without his permission, subdued by the new instincts the bite gifted him with, and he's leaning toward Kellen without being fully aware of it.

 

'Don't worry about it. I don't think my brother and Lydia are going to let it happen.'

 

That should peak Jackson's curiosity; he's been trying to figure out Lydia's game with Adam for days, has even considered warning the other Alpha that he's in over his head – nobody fucks with Lydia and comes out on top – but he barely hears the words, because now he's bracing on one hand to get closer to Kellen, to the curve of where his shoulder meets his neck.

 

The other man stiffens. 'Jackson?' The words are both a question and a subtle warning.

 

'Sorry,' Jackson mutters, but he doesn't stop, not until his face is buried in the crook of Kellen's neck, and he's nuzzling deep into the sun-kissed flesh. Kellen is holding himself stiffly as Jackson burrows in, rubbing his face and mouth over his skin, and he knows he's making a huge faux pas – there's nothing wrong with scenting your own pack, but approaching an outside wolf like that crosses all sorts of lines – but he doesn't care. He's on his knees now, one hand curled around Kellen's other shoulder, to hold himself steady, and the other cradling the back of his neck; whether to get better purchase or to keep Kellen from bolting, he's not sure.

 

But Kellen isn't pulling back; he isn't exactly encouraging Jackson, either, just staying frozen, but he's not pushing him away, and in the state Jackson's in, that's plenty enough. He can't stop touching him, can't stop butting his face into his neck, and he finally chances to open his mouth, close his teeth over Kellen's tendon and nip, small and light and sharp.

 

Kellen jerks under him, and it takes Jackson a minute to realize the low, rumbling sound he's hearing isn't from him; it's from _Kellen;_ Jackson pulls back and sees Kellen's fingers digging deep trenches in the dirt and his head is tilted back, eyes drifted half closed, mouth parted just enough to let that deep, purring sound escape.

 

Something shatters in Jackson and he's scrambling onto Kellen's lap, straddling him on his knees and attacking his mouth. He's never kissed a man before, but  _jesus fucking christ_ he doesn't even care, because he can't...he can't get close enough. For an endless second, Kellen stays still beneath him, taut and full of tension, even when Jackson's tongue slips between his lips, and then he's everywhere, fucking  _everywhere_ , all at once, hands biting into Jackson's hips as he yanks him into him and takes over.

 

Jackson is pretty sure this is what it feels like to be owned, because Kellen has his head in both hands, and is slotting their mouths together, licking deep into his mouth while his fingers pull and twist and knot his hair, tugging it enough to move Jackson exactly where he wants him. And apparently where he wants him is  _close,_ close enough that Jackson feels every shift of his body, every bunch of his muscles, and his mind flashes to hot, uncontrolled images of Kellen bending him over, pushing him to the ground, spreading his legs and taking him while his fingers curve bruises into his shoulders.

 

And it should be wrong, the intensity of the pictures should be scaring the shit out of him. Instead there's a whine in his throat, and he's pushing into Kellen, letting his hands slide roughly over all the skin he could touch, because he wants everything, everything he sees in his mind, wants to press marks into Kellen while he presses marks into him. He thinks he's shifted a little, thinks his fangs have at least dropped, but that's okay, too, because one of Kellen's teeth is definitely cutting into his lips.

 

He pulls back, turning his head to bare his throat, his eyes squeezed closed against the anticipated ecstasy of teeth piercing skin. He feels the graze of Kellen's mouth over his pulse, lets out a whimpering sound and –

 

– and it's over as quickly as it started. Kellen's _'No_ ,' is brutally harsh in his ears; he pushes Jackson away from him, hard enough that, unbalanced as he already is, he tumbles back into the creek. Jackson's up and out in a flash, darting away towards the woods, not processing anything but the need to escape from a stronger predator that's unexpectedly attacked him.

 

' _Jackson_ ,' the order in the voice is clear, and it pauses him enough that he halts in flight, crouched low to the ground and half shifted, caught right at the edge of escape.

 

Kellen is standing, his hands spread like that first day he had met him in the woods, like he's trying to keep a startled animal from bolting, and his face may be calm but his eyes are stormy and just this side of wild.

 

'Stop. You're reading this wrong.'

 

A loud, hysterical laugh startles its way out of Jackson's mouth, because  _no shit_ , he had read the situation wrong. So what that Kellen had responded to him; Jackson's kissed dozens of girls like that, because they've suddenly presented him with a lapful of flesh. Doesn't mean he actually wants a thing to do with any of them. He gets it, he really does; he's half grown, and he knows deep down he's weak – wolves don't choose weak partners.

 

He's really fucked up this time; Derek's going to be so mad.

 

Kellen is shaking his head, inching closer. 'Come back. We need to talk.  _Please_ .'

 

But Jackson's defense mechanisms are finally –  _thank god_ – kicking in, and he's pissed, pissed as anything that this wolf that is nothing to him, nothing to his pack, has the  _audacity_ to try and wreck him. Only his family has the right to make him feel like he does now – skinned raw and exposed. This stupid stranger and his stupid brother – Adam, who thinks he's better than Lydia – because, what? He's older? Born a wolf? Didn't have to navigate family and high school and people that would cut you down if you showed the slightest bit of weakness?

 

He doesn't need this. He's motherfucking Jackson Whittemore, he has everything he needs: his pack and his home. He smirks and straightens, starts to walk backwards into the woods, but Kellen keeps pace, stepping forward to keep the gap between them from growing.

 

'Jackson,' he says again, his voice low and urgent. 'Don't.'

 

Maybe if Jackson were thinking clearer, not trying to navigate the spikes of adrenaline pushing him five hundred different ways at once, then he might call the tone in Kellen's voice something like desperation. But all he knows is that he's not going to let Kellen catch him, not going to let him work whatever hoodoo voodoo he'd done when they first met. He's not vulnerable, he's  _not_ . So he growls and shifts, skids around on his feet and sprints off into the woods, not stopping until he reaches the safety of the Hale house, finds Lydia and Stiles doing a jigsaw puzzle on the porch and curls up between them. Neither of them pause what they're doing, but Stiles settles a hand in his hair while Lydia curls her fingers around his ankle.

 

Back in the woods, Kellen blinks at the spot where Jackson used to be and rakes his hand through his hair, making it stand up in crazy disarray. He walks to the edge of the stream and back again, smelling Jackson on him, smelling Jackson everywhere, and he's hard and he's edgy and he knows he screwed up even if his intentions were good.

 

In the end he drops back down to sit on the bank and lets his head fall back on the cool, damp earth. He bangs it back repeatedly against the dirt.

 

'Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ .'


	6. I don't know where you're going and I don't know where you've been AKA Chris once met a runaway named Elizabeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell this thing got away from me. It's long, about as long as all the other oneshots combined. What can I say, Chris gives me all sorts of Feels. This takes place, obviously, years before the other oneshots; in fact, years before the entire series. As always, I hope you can trust me. There is a method to the madness.

Chris Argent is fifteen when his family stays for two months at a Motel 6 in Brattleboro, Vermont. The length of time is unusual. The motel room...not so much. This has been his life for as long as he can remember. His dad, Kate, and him, moving from motel to motel, so his dad can keep his kids with him and still do his job. “The family business,' Gerard calls it, this traveling around the country, peddling guns and knives and all sorts of weird weaponry, to police departments and security firms and private collectors.

 

He guesses his dad is successful – there's always food to eat and clothes to wear, and his dad got him a top of the line Walkman for his birthday last year – but Chris wouldn't really know. His dad never talks business, not really, although he never misses a chance to make vague statements about Chris's heritage and responsibility, and has started letting Chris handle the inventory.

 

Chris feels the weight of the words, _family business_ , like a heavy inevitability. He doesn't want to peddle guns, doesn't want to drag any future kids from town to town, so quickly, that instead of school, they _homeschool_ , which really amounts to his dad pointing them in the direction of the local library and saying _Learn something_ , and then quizzing them with bullet like precision on the nights he's not gone going whatever it is his dad goes at night when he's doing whatever he does to show of the merchandise.

 

Chris wants to play hockey.

 

He wants to play hockey, and live in one of those cookie cutter houses that are only ten feet away from each other, and go to PTA meetings and Parent/Teacher Conferences and bitch at his kids about their grades.

 

That is what he sees, if he really lets himself dream, but he knows that's not going to be reality. He'll go into the family business, because his dad says he will, and it's what all his aunts and uncles do, which is why there is ostensibly no one rooted enough for his dad to leave Chris and Kate with. At least that's what his dad says, but Chris thinks even if there were a home for them to stay in, his dad wouldn't let them. Family, his father says, is the most important thing.

 

Chris wonders if things would have been different if his mom were around, but she took off right after Kate was born, leaving their father with a preschooler and a baby that didn't even know how to take formula from a bottle. His dad doesn't think he remembers, but Chris does. Remembers Kate screaming and screaming and his dad kicking a hole in the wall and walking out the door. Chris is only three, but he crawls up on the bed beside Kate, and she wraps a finger around his thumb; brings it to her mouth and sucks on it like it's a living lifeline. Chris decides in his little boy mind that he will be the best big brother ever.

 

They survived, of course – Chris doesn't think there's anything his dad can't survive through sheer force of will, and this is his life, and mainly it's okay. He doesn't mind not having friends so much, or having gaps in his knowledge because he only has to read about what he wants. He mainly worries about Kate. He's a natural loner, but Kate – he thinks, at thirteen, Kate could do with friends, could do without all the crime dramas on TV, could do with a date or a boyfriend or whatever it is normal teenage girls do.

 

He's looking for her now, a  _Sports Illustrated_ that needs to go back to the library curled up in his hand. The motel's too cheap to have a proper lobby, but there's a park across the street; he finds her there, sitting at a picnic table. She's got a magnifying glass in one hand – Chris gave her a science kit for her 11 th birthday, his dad gave her a chemistry set; a week later they'd had to vacate their hotel in the middle of the night because Kate built a firebomb and almost burned the room down – and when Chris gets close enough, he realizes she's using it to focus the sun on a couple of ants. He slaps her hand down.

 

'Stop that.'

 

She doesn't look up. 'They're ants. Evil, biting, nasty ants. They should die painfully.'

 

'They're not even bothering you.'

 

She sighs and shakes her head, gives him a faux sad look. 'Pussy.'

 

'Dad'll kick your ass if he hears you talking like that.'

 

She rolls her eyes. 'Who do you think I learned it from?'

 

'Whatever.' He smacks the back of her head with the magazine. 'Come on. Let's go.'

 

'Ugh.' She shifts but doesn't get up. 'I don't want to. You go. It  _smells_ .'

 

She's right, and it's not just the smell of old books, which Chris kind of likes, but mildew and sort of rotting food. And cat lady. Definitely cat lady.

 

'Come on,' he wheedles. He's not supposed to leave her alone, and if they don't go, he'll end up lying to his dad. He hates doing that, and not just because he's getting better and better at it the older he gets and the more he and Kate want to do things like go to the movies instead of hole up in motel rooms and libraries.

 

'Just go. Promise I'll catch up.' All at once he's suspicious, because she's picking at her nails, a habit she'd given up a year ago, and not meeting his eyes.

 

'Kate.' He tries for the  _don't you bullshit me_ tone his dad uses, but thinks he falls miserably short, even though his voice  _finally_ dropped six months ago. 'What going on?'

 

She shifts uneasily. 'Nothing! I just don't wanna go to the stupid library, okay, you dork?'

 

But he sees it then, the butt of a handgun peeking out from where she's hidden it beneath her thigh, and he's scared and furious and worried all at the same time.

 

'Dammit, Kate! You know we're not supposed to mess with Dad's stuff! He's gonna kill you.'

 

Her jaw is set in stubborn lines. 'Those kids had guns. Their dad  _gave_ them to them, and they were way younger than us.'

 

He remembers the boys, two towns back – Sam and Dean. Although he never sees them speak, he thinks his dad and their dad must know each other. Maybe it's in the way they purposely avoid each others eyes, the way they give each other wide berth. He doesn't know. But for four kids holed up in the  _Lucky Strike_ motel, it's only natural for them to fall together, even if Dean is a good five years younger than Chris, and Sam is really nothing more than a baby. Boredom is boredom, and company is company.

 

They spend the first day bullshitting in the field behind the motel – Chris has a bagful of ladyfinger firecrackers, and they take turns blowing up cans and bottles and little toy soldiers Sam produces from somewhere – and the next morning when Chris is dragging Kate out of the room to get breakfast at the attached diner, Dean is casually slumped against the wall, waiting. Sam is beside him, hand clutched in his, half invisible as he hides in the shade of his shadow.

 

'Hey, you wanna see something cool?' He's addressing Chris, but his eyes keep flicking to Kate. Chris glances at Kate just in time to see her smirk and wink, and  _really_ ? She shouldn't torture the kid. But Chris nods.

 

'Sure.'

 

'Not here though. Come on.'

 

They follow Dean as he tugs Sam along, down the street and through an alley and into a deserted yard that's backed by abandoned warehouses. It's not a safe place for them to be, and Chris starts to object, until Dean reaches into the back of his jeans and pulls out a handgun – Desert Eagle, .45; Chris's dad has recently started drilling him on makes and models.

 

'Check it out.'

 

'Dean!' Sam is hissing in a scolding voice by Dean's side, but Chris is louder. 'Where'd you get that?' His eyes dart around, like his dad's going to materialize out of thin air.

 

Dean grins, pleased. 'It's mine.'

 

'Bull.' He shoots a hand out to grab the back of Kate's shirt as she scoots closer to Dean and the gun. 'You take it from your dad?'

 

'My dad  _gave_ it to me. I can use it, too. I'm a good shot. Wanna see?' Sam is jerking on Dean's sleeve, and when Dean looks down at him, Chris sees a shadow of uncertainty flitter over his face, before he's all back to cocky self satisfaction. He nudges Sam, 'Don't be a buttmunch, you heard what dad said about them. It's fine.'

 

'It's illegal,' Chris points out, already calculating how fast he can get Kate out of here if she fights him on it and trying to ignore the part of him that wants to see if he can out shoot this kid.

 

'There's a lot worse things out there than breaking a few laws.' Dean's staring at him like he's trying to tell him something, but whatever it is, Chris doesn't want to know, and after a second Dean's stare shifts to disappointment. 'You wanna see or not?'

 

In the end, Chris vetoes any shooting, but they spend hours in the dirt, loading and reloading the gun, and seeing who can take it apart and reassemble it the fastest. Dean tells them how to make a silencer out of a plastic bottle, and Kate tells Dean about a video on serial killers she's watched. For some reason this scares Sam, and Dean scowls and turns his back on them while he calms his brother down and snaps at Kate to keep her mouth shut. The next half hour is awkward but in the way of kids everywhere, some joke or the other smooths things out and it's another hour before Chris makes a reluctant Kate leave with him.

 

When they get back to their room, he joins Kate in scrubbing their hands with some industrial cleaner he snags from the a housekeeping cart, so that the tangy smell of chemical covers the scent of gun oil and metal filings. It's a wasted effort; when his dad gets back he takes one look at them, and somehow  _knows_ . He slams the door behind him and Chris has no idea what happens in the thirty minutes before he returns, but the next morning Sam and Dean and their father have checked out of the motel.

 

He pushes Kate to the side and retrieves the gun, looking around to make sure no one sees as he shoves it into the deep pocket of his hoodie. 'Yeah, and obviously their dad was into some bad stuff.'

 

'Please.' Kate looks at him like he's an idiot. 'You can't be stupid enough to think Dad's squeaky clean, either. This would be...like...protection.'

 

The thing is, Chris isn't stupid. He knows that while his dad may have some legitimate customers, half the guys he sees him talking to look more like arms dealers you see in the movies rather than law enforcement officers, even off duty ones, and really, how many above board businesses meet their suppliers on midnight runs? But even if he sells to them, his dad isn't  _like_ them, he can't be, and Chris refuses to think his dad would ever do anything that would put them into danger.

 

'Go put your crap in the room and grab your books. I won't tell dad.' She gives him an ugly look but obeys, and he's trailing after her, to return the gun, when he remembers the magazine he left on the picnic table. He jogs back over, but in the space of the thirty seconds or so, the table has a new occupant.

 

She's young, somewhere around his age, with a mess of brown hair that's curling haphazardly around her shoulders, and she's eating a small bag of vending machine chips, chewing each one slowly before swallowing and restarting. She's just opening up the  _Sports Illustrated_ , and she's maybe the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, all the way down to her neon green jelly bracelet. She looks up warily as he approaches.

 

'I'm sorry,' he says apologetically. 'That's mine..or, well, it's the library's. I've got to take it back.' He's conscious of the weight of the gun in his pocket and of Kate waiting for him.

 

Her smile is small but genuine as she slides it to him, gesturing to headline story. 'You like hockey?'

 

He can't help smiling back – he rarely gets to talk with people his own age – and nods. 'Sorta. Yeah.'

 

'My twin brother plays lacrosse.' At his look she laughs. 'I know, it's not the same. But it's kind of like field hockey, right?'

 

He finds himself sitting down across from her, and for the next five minutes they argue the ins and outs of the sports, and he enjoys it, even though she's clearly deluded enough to think lacrosse is anything remotely as awesome as hockey. It's when a wind comes up and he slides his hands into his pockets, feeling the cold metal of the gun butt, that he remembers he's supposed to be doing something.

 

The park is deserted by now and he looks at her curiously. 'Does your family live in town? They gonna be back soon?'

 

Her entire posture stiffens and her eyes dart around and down to the backpack at her feet before settling on the wood grain of the table. For the first time he really  _looks_ at her, realizes that yeah, she's pretty, but her clothes have seen better days, and her hair is maybe just a little unwashed.

 

'Are you a runaway?' he blurts, and before he even gets to the  _-way_ , she's out of her seat and flinging the backpack over her shoulder. He reaches a hand out in an attempt to stop her fight; he doesn't want her to go.

 

'Wait..wait, no. I won't tell anybody. Swear. Look, are you hungry? We've got food. You could take a shower, back at our room.' He wants to facepalm when he hears his words, because he knows what that probably sounds like to a girl. Sure enough, her face has a tight, polite smile as she backs away.

 

'Thanks, but I'm good. I'll see you around.'

 

'Wait! That sounded bad...it's not what I meant. My sister...my sister's there. She probably has some clothes you could borrow...' He trails off as she cocks her head to the side, considering, although, to be honest, it looks more like she's listening. She slowly nods.

 

'You're...telling the truth, aren't you?'

 

'Yes. Yes! Just. You look kind of hungry?' He wonders how long she's been surviving on bags of chips and cookies, but she rolls her eyes.

 

'Don't stress about me. I've got resources. I'm not stupid.' She doesn't explain what those resources might be, just looks at him pointedly. 'Shower?'

 

'Oh. Right. Um..this way.' His dad isn't due for another few hours and he figures she'll be gone in plenty of time for he and Kate to make their library date. He sticks his hand out.

 

'Chris.'

 

She's slow to take his hand, but eventually does, then shakes it wildly and over exaggerated, grinning widely. 'Elizabeth.' She doesn't give him a last name, but neither did he, so he figures they're on equal footing there. She follows him back to the motel, keeping a death grip on her bag, whatever is in there is important. More important than food or clothes, obviously. When he opens the door, Kate is flopped on the bed flipping through the four channels on the TV, and when she sees he's not alone, her eyes widen and then she smirks.

 

He narrows his eyes and glares, promising a year's worth of noogies and short sheets and anything else he can think of in that stare, if she so much as says one smartass thing, and then introduces them. Turns out she's too tall for Kate's pants, but can use one of her shirts, and his sweats fit a little big but will do. She disappears into the shower and Chris spends the eight minutes she's gone tucking the gun back under his dad's mattress and fielding Kate's attitude and jokes. He ends up pinning her to the bed and dangling spit over her face until she promises to shut up and not tell their dad.

 

By the time Elizabeth emerges, Kate is sedately flipping through an anthology of Vermont Ghost stories. Her hair is wet and there's a two inch gap between the bottom of her borrowed shirt and where Chris's sweats hang low on her hip; Chris has been taught well enough to know not to stare, so he keeps his eyes on her face, but there's a funny quirk to her lips that makes him think she somehow can read his mind. When she crosses her arms low over her exposed flesh, Chris clears his throat and kicks Kate's ankle.

 

'How about food?'

 

They file out to a McDonald's, and even though she's already eaten, Kate makes him buy her a whole new meal in payment for her silence. Elizabeth eats quietly, at least until near the end of her milkshake, when she seems to slip back to the early comfort level she'd had at the park. She tells them about unethical meat processing methods and the way fast food is ruining the economy, and by the time she's done, Chris swears he'll never eat another burger again. Even Kate looks mildly ill, which is kind of impressive, considering she once ate four Carolina waterbugs on a dare.

 

Before he knows it, they're all standing awkwardly outside the restaurant, and Chris shifts from foot to foot.

 

'So..' they both start at the same time, laugh, and start again. This time Chris gestures for her to take the lead.

 

'Thanks. For, you know, the shower, and the 2,000 calories, and the pants.' She hitches them up and it's both totally unattractive and totally cute and he has no idea how something can be both those things at once. 'Um...I guess I'll...see you.' She makes a point to include Kate in her statement and he's surprised to see Kate grin back.

 

Elizabeth is already halfway down the block when he realizes she's  _leaving_ , and he runs to catch up. 'Hey,' he jogs backwards in front of her on the narrow sidewalk. 'We still have your clothes. I could wash them? When we do ours?' It's not wash day, and he'll have to do it before his dad gets back, but he'll make the exception.

 

'No, really, you probably should just throw - '

 

'Meet me at the park tomorrow? Same time? I'll have them.'

 

There's a bit more back and forth, but finally she agrees and he makes his way back to Kate, watching Elizabeth until she disappears around a corner. He thinks he should have asked her where she was sleeping, but it's not like he could offer her their place if she didn't have anywhere to go, and he'd feel like crap if that were confirmed.

 

By the time morning comes, he's convinced himself she's not going to show, but she does, and she takes her clothes, and uses their shower, and this time they eat lunch out of the crappy stores of food they keep in the room, all of them spread out over the beds. Afterward, Elizabeth braids Kate's hair before she leaves. The next day starts the weekend, and 'family time' with their dad, and the whole two days he's worried if Elizabeth's eating, or if she's okay, or if she's left town, but when Monday rolls around, she keeps her word and is sitting in the park, writing in a little notebook that she stuffs into her backpack when she sees him coming.

 

Over the next two weeks, for two hours a day, he learns she's sixteen, likes to laugh, and is passionate about politics. He finds himself devouring the newspapers in the library so he can keep up with her, and decides he's maybe moderate, while Elizabeth seems to fall strictly on the liberal side. He never asks her where she came from, or why she left, or what her future plans might be; it's not that he doesn't want to know, he's just afraid he'll spook her. Every once in a while, she'll let something slip about her family. They're large, and loud, and she loves her twin deeply. He gets the feeling she didn't want to leave, but he never has enough courage to ask her why.

 

Instead he tells her about his love of American History, and that he's fluent in French; she tries and fails to hide an amused grin when Kate quips 'But not French  _kissing_ ,' and Chris feels his cheeks burn bright. That night he puts toothpaste in Kate's hair while she sleeps.

 

When it rains, the three of them stay in the room. When the weathers good, they spread out over the park, and Elizabeth talks about the time she visited San Francisco and bought truffle salt and ate it straight out of the bag and got sick. She paints Kate's toenails, and threatens to do Chris's – he almost lets her because it would be an excuse for her to touch him; even he has his standards though.

 

His dad is gone for longer and longer hours, and one night he doesn't come back at all. Kate sits at the window the whole night, while Chris paces the length of the room, telling her Gerard is just doing tests, or showing off night surveillance, when both of them know he doesn't believe what he's saying any more than she does. Gerard walks in, seven o'clock in the morning, with a bruise on his cheekbone and no explanation; takes them to breakfast, sleeps for an hour and heads out the door again.

 

The words 'family business' float up from Chris's subconsciousness, and he swallows down the vomit rising up in his throat. That day there's not much talking. Elizabeth scribbles in her notebook and Kate smashes bugs with her thumb.

 

The next afternoon Chris is debating if he has enough money left from his allowance to feed them all, when Kate grabs a book and a sweater and heads toward the door.

 

'What're you doing?'

 

She leans back against the door and raises an eyebrow. 'Giving you some  _alone_ time with your girlfriend. You can thank me later.'

 

'She's not - ' he's sputtering uncomfortably and he knows he's blushing, and Kate flat out snickers.

 

'Sure. Remember that thing dad told us about swamp land? That. Just remember to wrap it up, big brother. You know where dad hides 'em.' While he's still reeling from that, she slips out the door and is gone.

 

He's not thinking about that. He's never thought that far, but now that she's brought it up, he can't  _not_ think about it, and he spends a large amount of the next ten minutes trying very hard not to be a fifteen year old boy about to be alone with a girl he kind of has a crush on for the first time ever. He's chewed his pinky nail down to the quick by the time Elizabeth knocks.

 

He opens the door to let her in, ignoring the sweat on his palms.

 

'Where's Kate?'

 

'She's not here. We can...we can go outside if you want?'

 

She chews her lip but shakes her head. 'I'd still like to shower if that's okay?' It's then he realizes what a mess she is, and any thought of other activities flies right out the window. She's got leaves in her hair and her clothes are torn in places. There's  _blood_ , and her face and hands are smeared with dirt. He pulls her inside and slams the door.

 

'What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?' He's running his hands over her arms and neck, looking for cuts or bruises, but there's nothing he can see.

 

'I'm okay. I'm okay.' She lets him sit her on the bed. 'There were some guys.' Chris grits his teeth and thinks of guns and knives. 'They thought I should join their pa – They thought I needed to come with them. They picked the wrong girl.'

 

'Jesus, Elizabeth. You should tell the police.' Even as he says it, he knows she won't. They'll ask questions she can't answer, and they'll figure out she's not where she's supposed to be.

 

'I'm fine. Really.' He looks pointedly at the blood on her, still not sure how she escaped getting hurt, and she's shivering from delayed shock when she continues. 'You should see the other guys.' And even though she says it jokingly, he gets the feeling she's deadly serious, just like he gets the feeling she's scared out of her wits and trying to hide it. It doesn't really surprise him. She's been living on her own for who knows how long; she obviously has some idea of how to take care of herself.

 

'I hope you killed them,' he says, sincerity bleeding into every word. She doesn't answer him directly, but picks at a loose thread on the sheet.

 

'That's not a good thing to hope for.'

 

And maybe not, but he doesn't care. She's got blood under her nails and she's shivering harder; he brushes the hair from her face and does his best to thumb the blood away from the corner of her mouth. She just keeps whispering  _I'm okay, I'm okay_ , over and over, when she so obviously isn't. He's at a loss; he doesn't know how to comfort her any other way than he would help Kate, so he finally wraps his arms around her and _shhh shhhs_ into her ear. He doesn't know how long they sit – fifteen minutes? Thirty? But her shaking slowly stills and she pulls back so that he can see her face.

 

'I should get cleaned up, huh?'

 

He nods and reluctantly lets go, but instead of getting up, she grabs his hand and studies his face for a long minute. Resolve sets into her features and she drops her eyes to look at their hands. Her voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

 

'Come with me?'

 

'What?' For a crazy second he thinks she's asked him to runaway with her and he doesn't even want to examine the part of him that shouts  _yes_ .

 

Her words are firmer when she lifts her head. 'To the shower. Please? I...I don't want to be alone.'

 

'I can wait right outside the door?' he offers, because he's pretty sure she's not saying what he thinks she is, what parts of his body are clamoring to hear.

 

It turns out he's wrong.

 

'No. I want to be able to see you.' And she looks at him, patient and just a little unsure, as he slips his hand around the back of her neck and carefully presses closed lips to hers.

 

It's easy after that, from kissing, to undressing, to standing under water hot enough to wash the stink of whatever happened to her off her skin. There's bumbling, too, and laughter that doesn't actually spoil the mood – although he's not sure there was a mood to start with – and he doesn't think she has any more experience in this area than he does. They leave puddles on the floor, and a damp sheet on the bed, and when they're done he stares at the ceiling and rubs strands of her hair between his finger and thumb.

 

Her breath is warm on his neck and he wants to ask  _was it okay_ ? but he's not sure that's alright to say,, so instead he doesn't say anything; she ends up propping her head on her elbow with one hand flat on his stomach.

 

'I got you something. Well, found you something.'

 

'Really?'

 

'Yeah. In the woods.' She leans over the bed and he's treated to the long line of her back as she fumbles around on the floor for her satchel. In the future, as he ages, this will become one of his favorite parts of a woman's body - the curve of her shoulder as it meets her spine; the dip of her lower back as it meets her hips. Now though, he just thinks she's beautiful.

 

She sits back up with her backpack firmly in hand and digs around before pulling something out that fits entirely in her fist.

 

'It's kind of stupid, but I saw it, and I remembered how you said you liked the whole history thing... anyway.'

 

She flatten her hand and holds its contents up for inspection. It's an arrowhead, whole except for a crack running along one side, grey and flinty and chipped.

 

'You said your birthday was soon, and I thought, since you probably wouldn't be here...'

 

He doesn't want to think about that. At all. 'Thank you,' he says instead, and kisses her again.

 

They're in town for another week, and Kate makes a point of smirking at him and disappearing every time she knows Elizabeth is due to drop by. She makes him give her all his pudding, and blackmails him for the use of his Walkman, but she never tells their dad, helps him clean up and hide any clues, and for that he's grateful. He's fifteen, and awkward, and has no clue what he's doing, but when he's brokenly clutching at Elizabeth, and she's smiling despite his lack of skill, he feels like he has something that belongs just to him. Not a secret that's a remnant of his father's, not a subterfuge he's required to play out; these moments are solely between he and Elizabeth.

 

It ends, like all things in his life, abruptly and without warning.

 

It's a Thursday, and he and Kate come back from the library to find their father in the room, when he almost never shows up before supper. Chris panics; Elizabeth will come an hour from now, but then he realizes his dad has all their suitcases packed, that they're stacked by the door.

 

'We're leaving?' he asks dully. It's not like he didn't know it was coming; the two months they've stayed here is longer than usual.

 

His dad rubs his hands together, an eager gesture, and nods. 'Yep.'

 

'Business is over?' He doesn't know why he's pressing; it's not like he has a say, and Kate is already gathering her last few things from the bathroom.

 

'All tied up with a pretty bow. Took a little longer than usual, but I made the sell.' His father is grizzled and stern even back then, but after a sell he always has a cold delight in his eyes that bothers Chris, more so when he realizes he sometimes sees it in Kate's eyes as well, like when she pulls legs off of spiders or strands wingless flies in front of cats.

 

'Now get moving. I wanna be on the road in fifteen minutes. Got another appointment that can't wait.'

 

He slips the motel memo pad off the table and into his pocket and spends a few seconds fiddling around with his books before addressing his dad. 'I left something in the park. Can I go get it?'

 

His father waves him off with a warning not to lolly gag, an he's out the door, ignoring Kate's sympathetic look. He doesn't have any way to contact Elizabeth, no way for her to contact him. His dad keeps a permanent P.O. Box that he's not allowed to give out, and a number and answering machine that his uncle maintains – also of the private kind. He doesn't care. He writes a note, scratches both address and phone number at the bottom. He'll deal with his dad when it comes, but the idea of just disappearing without a word, no chance to see her again, is something he can't think about. He folds the paper and wedges it deep between two slats of the picnic table, tight enough that it won't accidentally get blown away. If they don't answer the door, Elizabeth will look for him here.

 

Then he returns to the room like the obedient son he is, grabs his bags and loads them into the back of the pick up. Thirteen minutes after they walked in the door, they're checked out, nothing but a trail of dust across the road.

 

He hopes Elizabeth sees his note, even if he doesn't get a chance to say good-bye, but he never hears from her again; the post office box stands empty, and it's never her voice on the worn out answering machine.

 

Two weeks later, their motel room in Tallahassee, Florida is attacked by creatures out of legend, out of nightmare, and Chris and Kate learn exactly what the family business really is. After that, Chris has no more time to think of baseball, or hockey, or stolen moments of quiet in a Motel 6. But he keeps a dingy piece of flint in the corner of his duffel no matter where they go, and he thinks, when he has children, he'll let them stay young for as long as he can.


End file.
